


Fixated

by JCMorrison



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Aerith is the Biggest Cloti, Attempt at Humor, Dirty Thoughts, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Pining, Sexual Tension, Sort Of, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27717296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrison/pseuds/JCMorrison
Summary: Tifa has an obsession... Cloud finds out.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 40
Kudos: 125





	Fixated

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, Everyone!  
> This is something I've been working on for far too long, and I'm so glad it's finally finished to share with you.  
> Special thanks to 04Jetta and mayelisa for beta'ing!! All your help and encouraging words mean the world.  
> Hope you all enjoy this as much as I did dreaming it up!

Cloud.

A lot of time has passed since Tifa found him at the train station. Enough to stop counting the days in disbelief, and though she tries not to, enough to forget little details of the days that followed. Even so, no amount of time could erase the initial shock at just how much he had changed.

He's very different from the boy she'd known years ago. The hope that once filled his eyes is gone, replaced with something dark, haunted, and tinted with mako. He doesn't smile as freely, if at all, and sometimes he'll say and do things that seem…not quite right. She often wonders if he remembers any of the sweeter moments they’d shared as children aside from their promise. For the past seven years, she's wished more than anything to see that boy again. Sometimes she still does. She’s tried to wave it off, but it weighs on her. Nags at her like the ticking of a clock in a quiet room. She worries a lot about him.

In hindsight, she wonders if that's why she's let all the _other_ details about him distract her so. 

Tifa can't stop staring at him. 

It's becoming a problem, really. Nearly as bad as all the worrying, she thinks idly as her gaze sticks to the raindrops wandering down his neck and shoulders. Though the sky is overcast and dusk is approaching, there’s a dull sheen to his skin and hair and the sword lightly tapping at his back. His strides are long and languid; he kind of floats, drifting wherever he goes, much like his namesake. She’s entranced by the slow rhythm of his steps, the gentle sway of his arms. He bends one to flex his hand, perhaps out of discomfort or maybe boredom. Either way, she licks her lips at how his muscles tense and strain against those long, cursed leather gloves that hide them.

Yes, staring is becoming a problem because now she’s wondering what his hands would feel like, bare of those gloves and flexing around her thighs, how those muscles would stretch when he hoists her up to wrap around his waist. And how entranced she might be from an altogether different rhythm he’d set...

"Hellooo, Planet to Tifa. Coming back to us any time soon?"

Tifa rips her eyes from Cloud at the sudden intrusion. It's spoken privately, and Aerith means well, but it doesn't stop Tifa from flinching. Another jolt comes when Aerith settles her hand on Tifa's shoulder; it's colder than the light rain falling and a sharp contrast to the touch she was daydreaming of.

"You've had a lot on your mind lately. Wanna talk about it?"

Tifa's sight flits back to Cloud, a good twenty feet ahead on a dirt path leading toward Kalm. It's ridiculous how obvious the heat creeping up the sides of her neck must be, so she quickly shifts back to Aerith. "It's nothing to worry about. Really. What about you?" she says, hoping it'll be enough of a deflection. 

Aerith raises an eyebrow and hums in a way that says _'I already know, so you might as well spill it'_. “Tell me what’s going on. We’re all friends here, right?” She waves a hand gesturing to Cloud, Barret, and Red. “Is it something to do with Cloud?”

Tifa would have laughed at her insistence had she not been so accurately put on the spot. Instead, she’s left fumbling for a quick rebuttal, finally settling on, "Why would it be?”

“I dunno, maybe because you care about him? He’s your friend. When you care about your friends, you think about them.” Hopping forward, she dips her head to catch Tifa’s eyes. “Did I get it right?” She clasps her hands together, falling back in-step with a wolfish grin. “The question is, how _much_ do you care about him, _hmm_?”

A laugh does slip out this time. Tifa cares about him, sure, just as deeply as she misses any of the connections to her childhood home—her parents, her friends. Of course she would. He's the only piece of home she has left. Their friendship is a sentimental thing; they have many of the same memories and loss in common. As it is, she’s not even sure if the title “friend” is fitting. Technically, it is all they are, but it feels frivolous compared to what he means to her.

Is that as far as her feelings go, though? Can she think of him only as a friend would? The answer to that is pretty clear. The instant ache between her legs every time he so much as glances her way makes it about as blatant as it was going to get. But she isn’t telling Aerith _that_ , and she definitely isn’t going to reveal any of the less-than-prudent thoughts that had been keeping her so preoccupied. It also isn't her place to talk much about the worries those thoughts are distracting her from.

She presses her lips together, deciding on taking the question as rhetorical. Until Aerith's face falls, that is. Tifa sighs. "I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want to tell you, it's—it's just…"

"Hard to explain. Yeah, I know."

There’s something strange about the way she says it—like it’s something she’d heard before, but Tifa’s sure they hadn’t broached the topic yet. Aerith always seems aware of more than she lets on. “How’d you—”

“Oh, nevermind that. What’s important is that you get comfortable with your feelings.” Aerith loops her arm with hers and guides them around a puddle in the path. 

“...I—I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Oh, Tifa. C’mon. I see the way you look at him! You shouldn't feel guilty about it. He notices how pretty you are, too, you know.”

Tifa scoffs with an open-mouthed grin and rolls her eyes. “Even if he did, it wouldn’t _mean_ anything. I’m just someone he used to know.” Her smile had faded by the end of the explanation, which, of course, doesn’t go past Aerith.

“Hmm. And is that what he is to you?”

She hesitates, but the answer is a pensive and deliberate “No.” 

“So, what makes you think he wouldn’t feel the same way?” she says with a soft simper, then, before skipping ahead to chat with Barret and Red, she winks and whispers, "Don't worry, Tifa. You'll meet him again."

Tifa’s mouth falls open as she watches Aerith’s fish braid bounce back and forth. What did she mean? 

That he’d be free of whatever hell plagues him has been a constant wish of Tifa’s, but she’d never really seen him as a different person altogether. He's still Cloud. Still has the wild blond hair and boyish face. His mannerisms are more confident, yet unchanged. Though the calm in him may be gone, he's still quiet. And she continues to have this unmistakable feeling, one that has only ever happened when she thinks of him or when he's near. He's still Cloud, just broken. Right?

She can't keep dwelling on all this. Puzzling over what he might have went through the past seven years that's damaged him both drives her mad and crushes her heart. Unconsciously, her gaze searches for his form, stalling on his biceps and narrow hips, then finally his hands. She wonders if the same pattern of freckles that had always caught her eye back in Nibelheim is still on his wrist or if it had faded and stretched apart. She can picture it there; imagines dragging her fingertips along his fair skin, tracing it like a constellation in the sky. So close yet so far…

God damn those gloves.

Cloud glances back and fixes on her. Their eyes lock for a moment, and she swears the corner of his mouth turns up before he faces forward again, right about the same time she catches herself from tripping over a rock.

She smiles at his back, shaking her head at the effect he has: her brain going wayward, legs all a stumble, her breath-laden giggles and reddened cheeks. It's almost like she's drunk off it, staring at him. It's foolish, but it doesn't stop her. They'll be walking a while, so until anyone else decides to lag with her, she'll get her fill. She'll drink him in until she can't, and it'll leave her dehydrated and thirsty for more. As he _always_ has. Addicted, like all the alcoholics that had returned to Seventh Heaven night after night, refusing to leave long after last call.

Too enveloped in her thoughts, Tifa doesn’t see the Fang charging at her right. Bullets ring out and fly past, and it's so startling that she loses her footing. In the split second it takes to note Cloud was no longer ahead, he’s wrapped his arm around her waist, keeping her from falling and dragging her from Barret’s line of fire. 

The whole thing is over as quickly as it started, but Cloud’s hand lingers at the small of her back as he scans the area, ready to draw his sword at any hint of danger. Though the leather of his glove is cool and damp, she feels his warmth radiating through. She hates the barrier between their skin. Mako is swirling in his eyes when they meet hers, and he drops his hand. She immediately misses it.

“You good?” 

_No._ “Yeah. Thanks, Cloud.” Tifa smiles and straightens her skirt for no reason at all. Cloud nods and starts walking again, his attention now on a grumbling Barret.

Barret curses under his breath, nudging the wolf beast with a boot to see if it still moved. "Tifa, c'mon, now! Focus!"

Focus. Right.

How the hell is she supposed to focus when all she can think about is Cloud? How he's hidden behind unspoken traumas and thick leather gloves? 

It'll be the death of her.

One of those problems can't be dealt with right now, not until he's ready to open up and talk, but the other… well, maybe that one won't be so difficult. 

She needs to find a way to get rid of those damn gloves.

.

.

.

The rain clouds have cleared and stars are scattered like spilled sugar in the sky once they finally stop to set up camp. Cloud hadn't planned on camping; he'd told Tifa he wanted to get them to town because of their lack of supplies, but Kalm is still a days trek away. They’d found a small clearing by the woods and a stream and all agreed it was as good a place as any to rest for the night. 

Aerith meanders through the treeline with Tifa now, gathering a second round of branches for the fire. She’s going on about a certain type of clover that grows along creeks, but Tifa’s listening with only half an ear, most of her attention drawn in Cloud’s direction. He and Barret are maneuvering two fallen logs in a wide "V" shape where the campfire will be while Red hunts game for dinner. 

The moon provides a soft, ethereal light, one she hasn’t seen in so long, and it with the night’s shadows defines his body in a whole new way. His skin gleams with sweat and the moisture in the air, the shine of it dancing in the darkness every time his muscles flex. He dusts his hands off once finished moving the last log and rests his sword against it. Her eyes widen as she’s walking past when he takes off his pauldron and harness next.

Aerith calls out to Tifa, but she’s background noise because Cloud’s shirt is clinging to every inch of his torso, unhidden from the thick belt and straps. Even from a distance, how toned he is is a lot more evident than she’d expected. Her gaze trails up his abs to his pecs which have reacted to the chill in the breeze.

“Tifa, look!”

Aerith’s voice is closer now. Tifa turns her head forward to answer when her foot catches on something— _oh no_ _—_ not something, but _Aerith_ , who’s kneeling by the stream, trying to jolt up to avoid being trampled but Tifa’s boot is planted on her dress. They both tumble, and there’s a big splash, a shock of cold water, and sticks and clovers flying about. Though the stream is shallow, it definitely wasn’t helping dry the rainwater from their clothes, and all the wood they’d gathered is now ruined—along with the desire that had blossomed moments ago.

“Oh, Aerith! I’m so sorry!” Tifa scrambles to help her up, but she’s waving her hand, her giggles evolving into cackles.

“What _happened_?” she tries, “Were you looking at what I _think_ you were looking at?” Aerith laughs harder when she sees Tifa’s sheepish grin, then finally accepts the help, wrapping her arm around Tifa’s waist, and they step out of the water hip to hip. “We’ve _really_ gotta do something about this.”

Tifa doesn’t bother being embarrassed; Aerith’s laughter is too infectious, and a fit of her own bubbles out. “Silly, right? What am I gonna do?”

“I’ll tell you what you’re gonna do!” Aerith’s hands come to the back of Tifa’s shoulders giving a gentle push. “You’re gonna go start a fire with what we have while I get more. And you’re going to _talk_ to him.”

Tifa tries to protest, but Aerith won’t have it. She nudges her towards the logs where Cloud’s sitting and goes back to the treeline with a wink and backward wave. Tifa sighs, nerves swirling in her belly at the thought of _talking._ Every time she tries, it brings up the past one way or another—that and her curiosity about where he’s been and what’s happened. And nearly every time it hurts him. She hates seeing him have those episodes, hates how he clutches his head in pain. Especially hates the fact that it might be getting worse. 

But there are also times when talking isn’t bad. She thinks of when they were alone together in Sector Seven, looking for jobs and fighting monsters in Scrap Boulevard. Their conversations were natural and easy, even flirtatious on her part, which he thankfully took in stride instead of being affronted. Maybe it was okay that friends sometimes flirt. More importantly, he’d never seemed like he didn’t want to talk when they were alone—he’d even encouraged her to. 

She can do this. Shaking the water from her skirt, Tifa walks to the pile of branches and gathers them up. She can talk to him.

Once the campfire is started and she's sitting on the log diagonal to Cloud, Tifa tries to tamp the anxiety rebuilding as she mentally sifts through safe topics to bring up. The fire is off to the right, a comfortable distance away, and casts a warm glow. He busies himself with removing the materia from his weapon and armor, probably to dry any moisture that had been trapped in the slots. Barret seems to be doing the same, though he's sitting with his back turned on the other end of the log, closer to the fire.

Tifa skims over Cloud, everything she'd thought to say vanishing as she revels in how the fire tints his skin and hair like a painting. She takes in each brushstroke—all smooth shapes and hard lines—and watches the fluidity of his motions. How is she ever supposed to remember what to say when he looks like that? And how is she supposed to look away? No matter how many times logic reminds her that she's staring, that it's a _problem_ , that she really should _stop_ , her body has other ideas. Her eyes remain glued and she loves the thrill it gives her, like she's teetering on the edge of a precipice, heart caught in her throat. 

She pays special attention to his hands, how deliberate and unhesitant they are, and muses if he’d touch her the same way. If given the chance, would he be gentle or hungry and untamed? Maybe he’d approach slowly, being careful not to rush things, letting her lead the way but the more she watches him she doesn’t think so.

It’s more likely he’d pull her aside without a word, quick enough that no one would see, and pin her to a wall with a hand clamped over her mouth. His lips would brush her ear as he whispers “ _stay_ _quiet”_ , sending a tremor of anticipation down her spine. Tifa's entire body burns at the thought, and not just from embarrassment. 

She nibbles the back of her lip as she watches how Cloud bites his handkerchief, ripping it to toss half to Barret, and thinks that's how he'd tug his gloves off once he’s sure she would comply. He'd let them fall carelessly to the floor—similar to how he disregards his chain bangle now—and he'd waste no time finding his way under her tank and bra. Since he likes using his teeth, maybe they'd graze her neck as his hips press against hers. He'd push her clothes to her collar bone with his thumbs, the same way he swipes the rag over the materia, and would cup her fully, summoning her name under his breath.

Cloud brings the materia up to his mouth, fogging the surface, and her heart speeds up. Gods, that must feel amazing. He might do that, too, while he hitches one of her legs over his elbow and grinds himself onto her--right before swirling his tongue around her--

"Tifa."

Her eyes snap up, daydream extinguished like a blown-out candle. Cloud isn't looking directly at her, thankfully, seeming more focused on setting aside the materia and positioning his sword across his lap. He glances up when no response comes. His head is tipped down, hooding his bright aquamarine eyes in a way that sends a shock straight between her legs. The warmth brought on from the fantasy moments ago still lingers and is _not_ helping matters. She presses her thighs together to quell it.

It doesn't. 

Quickly wetting her lips, she tries her best to answer with innocence. "Hmm?" Failure again. Did it really have to sound like a purr?! Heat spreads from her stomach to her chest and ears. She nearly fans herself for gods' sake.

Something flickers in Cloud's eyes, too fast to read, before returning to his task. His jaw ticks and his Adam's apple bobs. "Give me your gloves," he says, and even from a distance that low, tender gravel dusts and tickles her skin. "They should be cleaned before they rust."

At the mention of gloves, her attention shifts to his hands again; one's resting on the butt of the sword, keeping it firmly against his thigh, the other smoothing the handkerchief in a slow, sure stroke down the blade across his lap. She chews her lip. He'd said something, right? His hands are so distracting. So…suggestive. 

The image of her in place of the sword is automatic—it can't be helped. She imagines she's draped over his thighs. Pretends one hand would be grabbing her ass, trapping her there, the other splayed at her lower back, on its way to tangle in her hair. Her lips quirk. Oh yes, it's a very nice thought. One that evokes a shiver. 

His fingers curve gently around the blunt edge, and she can almost feel it—like his bare fingers are framing her rib, then running down her side to meet his other hand on her bottom. It makes her clench just as fiercely as her hands on the log, nails going white. 

Cloud glides his finger with the rag into the materia slot, taking on a methodical, easy pace, curling his finger to the other side, rotating a bit. Tifa's breath hitches, face ablaze at where her imagination is going.

Her heart's running rampant. 

She's tingling, _tingling_ , feeling much too warm, much too damp, and her thighs can't seem to press together tight enough. 

"Tifa…?"

His hand stops and she pries her eyes off it to find him staring, and gods, why does he have to look at her like that?! It's like he sees into her, never stopping at just the surface. 

That damn twinge turns hotter between her legs, deeper in her core. She crosses her legs now, squeezing for dear life. Pulls her bottom lip in and bites down. 

He watches every movement. Lingering. Expectant. 

What did he want again? Not trusting her voice, she raises her brows in question.

He smirks."Your gloves?"

"O-oh, right," Tifa all but whispers.

She loosens her death grip on the log, concentrating hard on _not_ trembling, and peeks up while tugging at the gloves. Even though he's waiting patiently, there's an intensity about him that's hard to handle. Her calves are a clamped vise despite being crossed, desperate to keep from squirming. Her hips rock forward anyway. She's quick to stand, somewhat hiding the lewd reaction, but she's achingly and embarrassingly sure Cloud caught it. His gaze is returning from its trip down her body back to her eyes. Her face burns anew.

Tifa tucks her chin and half-steps to Cloud, holding out the gloves. He reaches, placing his palm over them, but wraps his fingers around her hand and keeps them there. She peeks again. His eyebrows are pinched, his lips parted. She sucks in a breath.

"Hey…you okay?"

He still has a hold of her even after she answers, "I'm fine," and she doesn't mean for it to come out in such a defensive and wispy laugh, but it does. From the look on his face, he's not buying it. His eyes stay locked with hers for the hour it takes to count six quick drums against her sternum before he relents and accepts the gloves. 

“Bracer, too,” he says, and she almost doesn’t register it because his gaze is burning a path down her arm. She absent-mindedly wriggles free of the bracer, wishing her own view of Cloud wasn't so obstructed by leather and metal. It occurs to her that this would be a perfect opportunity to get him to take off _his_ gear.

“What about yours?" Her voice sounds like she'd run a mile, weak and breathy and terribly _thirsty_. Mortified, she clears her throat to try again. "They must be wet. Shouldn't you take them off and let your hands breathe?"

Seeming not to hear, he reaches forward and asks, "Do these need to dry?" He's tugging a pinch of fabric from her arm protector with one hand and claiming her bracer with the other, blindly setting it and her gloves beside him. His focus remains on the material, though it feels like he's looking straight through it.

She hadn't thought much about it, but now with her gloves and bracer removed, the evening breeze cools the damp polyester in an uncomfortable way. She doesn't hesitate to peel them off with a hum of agreement. As she's draping them on the opposite log to air out, she gathers her composure to ask again. "Um, Cloud?" 

When she looks up, he's smirking. The kind of smirk that shouldn't be legal. The kind that steals her breath.

Feeling herself growing rosy for the hundredth time, she crosses her arms over her stomach. His eyes follow the movement. "Did you want to take yours off?"

He nods once, expression firmly in place, and slips out of his gauntlet and armlet, laying them by her things. To her frustration, he makes no move to take off the rest. 

"The gloves are fine. They won’t rust.”

Tifa huffs silently, pursing her lips and toeing the dirt. If he really didn’t want to, pressing him wouldn’t do. She’d have to find another way. She knits her brow and chances a glance at Cloud who’s still watching closely.

Is it just her, or does he look even more pleased with himself? He better not have been lying when he said he couldn't read her mind.

.

.

.

  
  


The next day is free of rain, not a single cloud in the sky, and it's hot. Unbearably hot. The sun had bore down on them all day, and now that it’s on its way to setting, it feels as though they’ll walk straight into it.

There are fields of tall, yellowed grass as far as the eye can see, and it's almost dizzying how still it is. The lack of breeze makes it easy to anticipate enemies that attack, but there hasn't been any for hours now. Not that she was complaining. It seems no one wants to be in this heat--not the clouds, the wind, or the monsters. 

Tifa blows her bangs from her temple, piling and tying her hair high on her head to keep off her neck. She'd taken all her gear off a while ago and tucked it under her belt. Aerith had removed her jacket, and Barret his vest. Red splashes in the few puddles that have evaporated down to their last breaths as they pass.

The only one who hasn't changed a thing to make themselves more comfortable is Cloud. He looks almost identical to how he did yesterday with his hair weighted and drops streaking his skin. There's no way he doesn't feel as hot as he looks, yet he hasn't complained. Not even a fidget or a wipe of his brow.

Tifa jogs to catch up to him. 

Yesterday her motivation to get him to take off his gloves was purely to feed her desires. Today she's more worried than anything. He's going to overheat. Or become dehydrated from all the unnecessary sweating. Or develop a rash that would only get worse with how he wears all that stuff like a second skin. 

She has to try again.

"Heya." She almost feels silly using her childhood greeting with how wide his eyes get at the sight of her, but the way he softens, lips twitching like he wants to smile, makes her decide to do it more often.

He slows his pace as she falls in-step, and though he sets his attention ahead, he sends quick glances to her hair and neck. "Hey."

"Sure is hot today, huh?" she says with a grin, and it's like it triggers him to finally realize that it is; he brushes the back of his glove across his forehead, then runs his fingers through his hair.

"Yeah. Should've thought this through better. Sorry, Tifa." 

Her heart flinches at his sudden change in demeanor and guilty expression; the fact that he feels the need to apologize makes it worse. She places her hand on his bicep and it's surprising how well it molds to him without gloves and how good he feels, hot and slick with sweat. She can't stop her thumb from caressing him. His head tilts down and to the side, looking at her from the corner of his eye. She must be imagining the way he sways, leaning into her touch. 

Inwardly chiding herself, she fights to keep her appearance light and encouraging. "It's ok, Cloud. None of us did. We just have to make do with what we have until we reach town, right?"

He's still peering at her through damp strands of blond, a tiny smile pulling at his lips. "Right."

She strokes him a second time and his muscles twitch under her palm. Shit, what is she doing? Why hasn't she let go? Warmth spreads up her neck and for once she’s grateful for the weather. He looks at her fully when her hand finally drops, and she chastises her overactive imagination again because there’s no way his down-turned lips and marginally pinched brows should be construed as a pout.

Averting her eyes, she takes a cleansing breath and hums it out. Focuses on her original reason for bringing up the subject. "So...I bet those gloves are getting uncomfortable. We haven't run into anything in a while; shouldn't you take them off?"

Cloud glances down as he flexes his hand and shrugs. "They're not too bad." Tifa wishes she could have hidden her disappointment before his eyes met hers. He softens again and jerks his head North East. "Besides, look."

She scans the horizon and spots a small town, like an oasis in a desert, emerging from the slight incline she hadn’t noticed they were on. A relieved laugh bursts out of her. "Kalm?" The corner of his mouth turns up more when he nods, and she almost hugs him. Instead, she pulls her arms behind her, hand under wrist, with a skip in her step and giggles softly. “Good. I’d kill for a shower.”

Cloud huffs out a chuckle and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, me too.”

.

.

.

The Inn in Kalm is quaint, like the rest of the town, and reminds Tifa a little of Nibelheim. It has two rooms, and since both are available, they get them. When they go upstairs, they find that the rooms are connected with a door so they could walk freely between them without going through the hallway. Each room has two beds, but only one has a bathroom. The one without has a couch. Barret immediately claims the one with the bathroom as “the men’s”, saying it’ll be doing the girls a service by preventing them from smelling things in their sleep.

“I wouldn’t wish that type'a bomb on anyone,” he says.

“Yeah, anyone but me.” Cloud rolls his eyes then looks at Red, gesturing to the wall opposite the girl’s beds. “That means you get the couch.” He shifts toward Tifa and Aerith. “You guys okay with that?” 

“You could take it if it makes you feel better,” Red states while crossing the room and hopping on one barrel of three crowded in the corner. 

Aerith giggles and cranes her head to Tifa, swinging a tote with a change of clothes for them both, and stage whispers that it might make her feel better, too. Tifa quickly turns to the window beside the barrels, hiding her face when it flares an extra ten degrees.

“The couch is yours, then.” Cloud’s tone is flat as he turns on his heel and goes through the adjoining door, a bag of his own in hand. 

Tifa can’t help but feel a little disheartened by his reaction, but it doesn’t last long. Soon the discussion of who will shower first is brought up; Cloud is quick to settle it and no one argues.

“Tifa goes first, I’ll go last. The rest is up to you.”

.

The showers go by quickly enough, and once Barret is finished with his, Tifa’s mind drifts to how Cloud will be next. None of her attempts to rid him of his gloves have worked so far. _Surely_ he doesn't wear them in the shower. And since he wouldn’t wear them in the shower, he’d have to take them off. And if he took them off, she could hide them.

Tifa sits on the edge of her bed running both hands down her face. She couldn’t _possibly_ be planning this.

It's immature, she knows, but she's running out of ideas. It's _so_ childish, in fact, that she tries to think back to an instance where she'd done anything like it. It takes a while, but finally a memory of a time in Nibelheim occurs to her. 

It was during the harvest festival that came around every year when the villagers would gather shares of their crops and crowd them all on a huge wagon strung with banners and lights.

Tifa had loved the lights—how they twinkled and shined like stars. The grown-ups would turn them on at dawn, and while the town flurried about playing games and holding contests, she'd sit on the barrels across the road just to enjoy their brilliant colors. She'd always wanted to see them glow after the sun had set, but once the festivities of the day were done, someone would head to the covered power box on the side of her house where they were plugged in and shut them off.

One day, her desire overrode her better judgment and she'd crept over to the box during all the excitement. It was covered with a hard resin dome, protecting the outlets from the elements, and could only be opened and closed with a key. The key hung on a nail above the power box, security not so much an issue as convenience; everyone in the village knew and trusted one another.

She remembers the pang of guilt as her fingers grasped the key, slowly drawing it off the nail. She'd almost changed her mind and put it back until unruly blond hair came into her periphery. It was rare for him to approach her unbidden, and her hand froze in front of her at the same time as her heart.

 _"Someone's not gonna be happy about that_ ," he'd said with a smirk, casually dropping a shoulder beside the power box.

Tifa can almost feel how deeply she'd blushed at his teasing lilt, and how his ocean blue eyes held onto hers. She had ducked her head, slightly turning away from him, gripping the key between her fingers until its grooves left dents. _"I'll put it back."_

As she'd reached up to do just that, one of his hands grabbed her wrist while the other claimed the key. Tifa had shot him a wide-eyed glance, watched how his chin dropped to his chest, his hands dipping into his pockets. _"I_ _—_ _uh_ _—_ _like them, too_." 

Tifa hadn't had the chance to say thank-you with how fast he'd fled back into the crowd, disappearing just as unexpectedly as he'd come.

That night, she'd sat at her window well into the early hours, taking in the view of the lights and the cozy feeling they gave. Cloud had walked past, grinning and waving up at her on his way to safely return the key. 

She remembers that following morning, how Papa had stood outside the front door, stopping her before she ran off to play. She caught sight of Cloud sitting on his front step next door as her father asked if she had known anything about the key’s disappearance and reappearance. She’d always been a terrible liar and Papa knew the answer before a stammer ever escaped her lips. He’d begun to scold her and she bit her lip, tilting her head away in shame. Cloud was dusting himself off, ready to approach and take the blame when Papa suddenly sighed, kneeling down to her level. His arms had wrapped around her, his mustache tickling her hair as he said, “ _Sweetheart, you know how much I love you, don’t you?”_

Cloud had stopped in between their houses, blinking as he watched. Her father straightened, keeping his hands on her upper arms, and smiled. “ _I’d give you the world, Tifa. All you have to do is ask.”_

Tifa smiles fondly at the memory, resolve setting in once recalling how the payoff was worth the risk. Granted, she'd be taking the proverbial key from Cloud instead of him helping, but as long as she doesn't get caught, she could leave the gloves at his bedside once he falls asleep tonight. She just needs to at least _see_ him without them. Anything beyond that is a pipe dream to deal with later.

She has to hurry, though, before he finishes showering.

When she enters the adjoined room, Barret is dealing a deck of cards to Aerith and an unimpressed Red at a small table past the two beds, hollering for Tifa to join. Aerith is grinning as she gathers her cards and Red is muttering something about brain cells. 

Tifa’s heart takes a tumble. She obviously hadn’t thought this through. 

How the hell is she going to sneak into the bathroom unnoticed? Barret’s back is turned, but if she answers now, he’ll wonder why she’s left the room. Red hasn’t looked up, more interested in trading insults with Barret, and then there’s Aerith, who’s looking directly at her. Tifa swallows, eyes darting to the right at the bathroom door without meaning to, then back to Aerith. Aerith’s grin turns sly, most likely noticing the fierce blush that burns Tifa’s cheeks, and motions for her to leave the room. She’s going to help. God bless her. She definitely has it all wrong, but Tifa will explain later; there isn't any time to waste overthinking things. Tifa chews her lip and nods, backing out of the room, turning, and easing the door shut behind her.

“Maybe the next one, Barret. Sorry!” she calls with her eyes squeezed shut. Her pulse is pounding in her throat and her hands are sweaty. She’ll never make it through the night. This is already proving to be harder than any Avalanche mission. 

Barret answers with a lighthearted groan and a distant “Awlright, girl. I’mma hold’ja to it!” 

He and the others are back to chattering, and it's almost like the whole exchange with Aerith was dropped or maybe never happened.

What now? How was she supposed to know when to go? 

Tifa puts her ear to the door, resting one hand on the knob, listening to the murmur of voices as they begin their game. The seconds feel like minutes and she presses the knuckles of her free hand to her lips. Cloud takes quick showers. She knows because she's heard him through the walls at Stargazer Heights. Her stomach twists at the thought of him finishing up already. She can’t miss this opportunity; she’s waited too long for it. Just when she’s about to throw all risks to the wind and storm out the door, Aerith’s voice picks up in volume.

"Well, c'mon! What are you waiting for?"

That must be her cue. Tifa drags in a breath, turns the knob, and peeks through. Aerith is hunched over Barret’s shoulder in a way that also blocks Red’s view. The three of them are talking atop one another, seemingly instigated by Aerith’s teasing, and Tifa finally breathes out.

She doesn’t wait for Aerith to glance back. 

Her vision blurs as she flurries to the bathroom door, jerks the handle and zips through, closing it securely once inside. She’s panting slightly, staring at the panels of the door, terrified to turn around. The fresh, woodsy scent of Cloud's body wash assails her immediately, and the water trickling against him sears her ears and skin; the vivid picture it pastes in her mind is impossible to push away. She can hear the way he flicks it from his hair, how he sloshes it over his body—all those smooth shapes and hard lines—and she feels her pulse between her legs.

She turns and sees herself in the mirror and it’s like looking at a stranger. Her pupils are blown wide and her chest is heaving and it’s all so exciting that she can’t help but laugh. Silently, of course. Her hand claps over her mouth as more adrenaline rushes through her and she scans the bathroom for her target. 

The gloves are peeking out from the pile of clothes on the floor--the clothes that make the visual of how he undressed all too real—and she crouches just as the water suddenly shuts off. 

_Oh no. Oh shit oh shit oh shit!_

The next moments are a complete blur. Tifa grabs the gloves, maybe his underwear, and zips back through the door without a second thought. She has no idea whether the sound of the shower curtain being drawn back was a thing or not. At least having half the mind to not slam the door once on the other side, she scurries through the men’s room to the girl’s without so much as a glance at the three playing cards. Her heart’s going so fast she’s not sure if it’s actually stopped when the second door closes behind her. It takes a moment to feel somewhat safe, but once she does, a pent up breath rushes out and she fights off a fit of laughter. 

Is she out of her _mind_? What the hell was she thinking??

Tifa finally looks down at her hand to see if she’d managed to swipe the right things and finds that she had. And yes, dammit, his underwear, too. 

Her spine snaps straight when hearing Cloud’s voice exiting the bathroom. He’s speaking too softly to discern words, but it doesn’t take a genius to know. Her eyes dart around the room looking for a place to hide the things she stole, and there’s so many damn places yet not nearly enough. She’s frozen, unable to make a decision. Cloud passes the door and her stomach drops someplace it’s never been and her feet move to the middle of the room. She’s clutching his gloves—and his underwear—tight against her chest, a voice in her head screaming for her to _do something._

She hears Aerith then, and it almost relieves her since Aerith wouldn’t rat her out, right? But no, she totally did because all is silent aside from footsteps approaching the door.

The first thing Tifa does is toss the underwear gods know where, then runs to the barrels in the corner of the room. 

Tries to lift the lid on one, two, on the third, but _goddammit_ , none will budge. 

She’s crossing the room when he comes in and shuts the door. She stops with her back facing him, hiding the gloves against her stomach. All she can hope is that he’s come to ask who took them.

“Had a feeling it was you…”

 _Shit._ Shit, shit. 

He does know. Well, there’s no hiding it now. 

Tifa drags in a shallow breath, puffs it out, then turns slowly, wringing the gloves until they gripe. 

The tips of Cloud’s ears and cheeks are pink, verging on red, and she finds it adorable how he can’t quite meet her eyes. Her face feels ten shades darker and she can't meet his either, stuck on a loop of dancing across his features then darting aside. She's shocked she can even speak when she says, “What gave it away?”

His cheeks do turn red then, along with his neck but he approaches regardless. With the added color, he's done playing 'who will look first', keeping his gaze glued to her hands instead. She's grateful for it, though his proximity has the same effect his eyes would; it makes the room run short on air. The corner of his mouth turns up minutely, yet it somehow reaches his eyes and she thinks anyone else would have missed it. He blinks and shakes his head. Time stands still for a moment. She takes the small opportunity to drink in his naked forearms and hands the same way she'd done with the rest of him. She maps out the sinuous muscles, the tendons, the veins. The curves and edges of his fingers and knuckles. Wishes she could follow all those lines with the tips of her fingers and tongue. The pattern of freckles is still there, and the realization sends goosebumps across her skin.

Her heart jumps when Cloud takes the gloves from her, setting them aside. She holds her breath, stunned when he reaches for her next. His hand curls around the underside of her right forearm, certain but careful, until it’s flush with his. She hiccups at the unexpected contact, and while her next breaths aren't as sharp, they're not much better.

He’s warm, far warmer than he is with gloves, feverishly so. He soaks through her skin in a balmy wave and heat surges like a torrent through her arm to her chest, straight to her heart. She surrenders to it, breathes it in, drowns. 

"Tifa…" he says, and it's low and rusty, and it dusts and tickles. He tilts his head sideways to search for her eyes. Leads her to the barrels in the corner, coaxing her to sit across from him. She does, and it’s a tight fit, her knees cradled between his, joined arms resting on top. "All you had to do was ask." 

Tifa nearly chokes. Had he remembered the festival? That notion alone is enough to send her reeling. There’s no way she’d let herself believe he did because the possible implications behind those words are...impossible. Her heart feels as though it's been replaced with a hummingbird; it's fluttering frantically in the dip of her throat. She pulls in air, shudders it out. Clears her head enough to wonder: hadn’t she asked? Twice? No, she hadn’t, she realizes; it had only been suggestions. She titters under her breath. Of course he wouldn’t take suggestions like that. Not when they were solely for his comfort and therefore unnecessary.

When she looks up again, his head's still tilted, sight trained on hers, blond hair soft against mako blue. And that’s all it takes, really. She’s losing herself again, grip on the here-and-now slacking, and she’s falling down, down, down. She tries to hold it back, but a shaky sigh laced with a whimper slips free. It would have been eternally humiliating had a hum of his own not joined in.

There’s a tiny squint in his eyes that says he's either gauging her reactions or uncertain if he’s crossing a line as he reaches his other hand over their linked arms. He picks up her free hand and hooks their thumbs so the heel of their palms are together, his fingertips tracing a lazy trail down her wrist. He's following the veins there and it's live wires against her skin, charging her bloodstream.

She thinks she must be dreaming, that she must have gotten too stressed out and allowed herself to fall deep into another fantasy, but for as surreal as it seemed, it was all too tangible. His touch is feather-light yet full of fire, and she watches, amazed how it doesn’t leave marks. Though his hands are calloused, they're smooth. Like the friction from his sword and gloves has polished them. There's a rough ridge at the edge of the callous between his knuckles and palm where the skin pinches from constant pressure and grip. His texture, his touch, the warmth it brings and the feeling it gives—like a million unspoken words of comfort and home—it's more than she'd ever imagined. He’s so much better than any of the limping thoughts she’d conjured up. 

He's perfect. 

Her chest is wrapped tight, like a tourniquet is knotted there, keeping her rapid pulse from escaping. He caresses her the same way someone would something precious, something important and cherished. Everything she felt on her skin and buried inside was mirrored deep in his unfaltering gaze. His eyes are soft. Content. _Hopeful_. She sees the night sky there, the same one from all those years ago—the stars she’d bid returning to grant her wish, if only for this moment. She sees the boy she's held so dear, locked tightly away in her heart. It swells against those locks now, becoming more and more constricted.

It's then she realizes she’s connecting the freckles on his wrist from memory. She's mimicking the tenderness of his motions and he must feel the same sensations from her. More than the fact that he’d decided to touch her this way, so intimately and unguarded, it was how he chose to initiate that touch that hit the hardest. It’s equal, each giving and receiving the same amount of skin, the warmth, the level of affection. It’s both an invitation and a show of trust. It’s the first time he’s let her in so fully, but the same went for her, too. 

He wanted this just as much as she did. 

It's all too much to take. The tourniquet squeezes to the point of pain; she gasps softly, and it dawns on her that she’d been holding her breath.

An almost non-existent chuckle escapes Cloud. She sees and feels it more than she hears it. His eyes have a teasing light and he says, "Don't forget to breathe."

Breathe. Right.

How the hell is she supposed to breathe now that she knows exactly what it's like being under his touch? How he reveals himself and his warmth seeps into the pores of her heart. How he electrifies her skin.

It'll be the death of her.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
